


Step Two: Make Mistakes

by TearCatcher



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Breaking and Entering, Drunk Pete, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearCatcher/pseuds/TearCatcher
Summary: From a writing prompt I read so long ago I can't remember exactly how it went, but it was something along the lines of "You accidentally broke into my apartment while drunk"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsPeppernose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPeppernose/gifts).



It's a joke amongst Patrick's friends that he's an incredibly heavy sleeper. Music blares, doors slam, car alarms go off - Patrick will barely stir. The only reason he hears the noise in his living room is because he has just gone to bed. He's been lying there in a twilight state - not quite awake but not yet asleep - when he hears the thud of something heavy hitting the carpet.

He sits up, suddenly wide awake, his heart leaping into his throat. He holds himself completely still, straining his ears to hear more. He's just about to tell himself he's being ridiculous and paranoid when he hears what is unmistakably a male voice.

Patrick is terrified. There is someone in his fucking apartment! His mom had warned him about moving into the city on his own, but he had dismissed her concerns and been so proud when he has moved into his very own little one-bedroom apartment. And look where that got him: sitting in bed at three o’clock in the morning, broken out in a cold sweat, on the verge of a heart attack, with his fucking phone charging on the counter in the kitchen.

He presses his hand to his mouth to prevent the escape of involuntary noises and darts his eyes around the dark room, his mind racing. Should he hide? Should he wait and hope the intruder takes what he can find in the living room and leaves quickly? But what about his guitars and amps and keyboard? He can't let some dirtbag break into his apartment and take his musical equipment - his lifeblood and livelihood - and hock them at some sleazy pawn shop for a fraction of what they're worth.

Now he's pissed off, and feeling protective of his gear. He wishes he had a baseball bat and immediately feels foolish for the thought. (He's never played a sport in his life, so why the fuck would he have a baseball bat in his bedroom?) Then he hears a familiar crash: his music stand getting knocked over (something he usually manages to do at least once a day himself), followed by what can best be described as a giggle. _What kind of a burglar giggles?_

Patrick throws off the blanket and swings his legs to the side of the bed, then carefully takes his glasses off the nightstand and puts them on. He hears a soft thud and a muffled exclamation, followed by another giggle, and springs to his feet and creeps cautiously toward the door to his bedroom. He tries taking wide sideways steps, keeping himself flush to the wall, when he discovers there is an extremely creaky floorboard right by the door.

“Shit! Chris, did I wake you up, man?” the voice calls from the living room, and Patrick notices the speech is thick and slightly garbled.

He briefly thinks of calling back, “There's no one named Chris here!” but it's not like this guy was knocking on his front door. He stands there, frozen in fear and indecision, and hears shuffling footsteps headed in his direction.

“Chris?” the voice says, quieter this time, and Patrick decides to step into the doorway, revealing himself to the intruder.

Instead of the burly guy all in black (possibly with a ski mask over his face) that Patrick is expecting to see, this guy is slight - skinny and not much taller than Patrick - and dressed in a pair of tight tattered jeans and an even tighter black t-shirt that exposes dark golden skin covered in black ink. He’s pretty in that emo boy way, with a fringed haircut and eyeliner smeared around his eyes, and at first Patrick thinks he has lipstick on, too, until he realizes he’s got a bloody lip. He is also very obviously drunk, swaying on his feet, and Patrick can smell the alcohol from 10 feet away. He doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see Patrick as Patrick is to see him.

“You’re not Chris,” Emo Boy observes, furrowing his brow. “Did he get a new roommate?” He leans heavily on the back of Patrick’s couch.

“This is my apartment,” Patrick says, but he’s in such disbelief at the spectacle before him that he doesn’t sound very sure of it. A quick glance at the front door shows it’s still deadbolted. “How did you get in here?”

“Fire escape,” the guy replies, as if it should be obvious, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window. “Seriously, where’s Chris?”

“I don’t know anyone named Chris!” Patrick exclaims. “This is _my_ apartment!”

Emo Boy blinks several times, slowly surveys the room around him, seemingly taking it in for the first time, then bursts out laughing.

Patrick is not amused. He explodes, “What the fuck are you doing here?! How the fuck did you even get on the fire escape?!” Patrick didn’t like to sit on the tiny, rickety-looking fire escape landing outside his window, but when Joe came over he would go out there to smoke. Patrick never checked to make sure he locked the window after coming in, partially because the bottom of the fire escape was extremely far off the ground, requiring a ladder that had to be let down from the bottom tier.

Now Emo Boy’s eyes widen, and he holds his hands up in front of him. “Whoa, calm down, dude.”

“I will not calm down! You broke into my apartment! I should call the police!” Patrick can’t believe the nerve of this guy.

Emo Boy starts frantically waving his hands. “No, don’t do that! I’m sorry, I -” He cuts himself off, putting a hand to his mouth and hiccupping violently. Patrick is horrified for a moment that his couch is going to get barfed on. “Hang on, just lemme sit down for a minute…” Instead of walking around the couch, Emo Boy merely slides to the floor, leaning against the back of it, his head in his hands. Patrick stands there feeling awkward, torn between asking him if there’s anything he needs and the righteous anger he feels over having his home broken into. (Well, maybe “broken” isn’t the right word, but this guy is definitely not supposed to be here.)

Finally, Patrick tentatively asks, “Are you okay?”

Emo Boy’s entire body jerks when he snorts. “I think this might be the worst day I have ever had in my entire life,” he replies morosely. 

Patrick immediately wishes Emo Boy would go back to laughing, and he's annoyed at himself for the rush of compassion he feels. “It’s okay, man,” he says lamely.

“Can I just...stay here for awhile?” he mumbles.

“I don't even know you!” Patrick says indignantly.

He raises his head and looks blearily at Patrick through half-lidded eyes. “I'm Pete,” he says, as if that settles everything. When Patrick just stares at him, Pete prompts, “And your name is…”

Patrick stares at him a moment longer, while Pete looks at him expectantly. Against his better judgment, Patrick huffs and replies, “Patrick.”

Pete looks him up and down and gives him a satisfied nod. “Patrick’s a nice name. You look like a Patrick.”

Patrick should not be charmed by this drunken, eyelinered weirdo. “Thanks,” he mutters, feeling a flush creeping up his neck.

“Who's your favorite ninja turtle?” Pete suddenly demands.

“Wha - what?” Patrick is flabbergasted.

“Your pants,” Pete explains with a hiccup, flinging a hand in the direction of Patrick's legs.

“D-Donatello,” Patrick stammers, realizing that he is wearing his old, faded Ninja Turtle pajama pants in front of a hot, cool guy.

Pete nods approvingly. “I would have guessed that.” He hiccups again, then buries his face on his knees. 

Patrick stands there for a moment and watches a few more hiccups ripple through Pete's slight form before saying, “So...can you call this Chris guy?”

“Lost my phone,” comes the muffled, slurred reply. “I tried asking around the club, but it’s gone.”

“You can use mine,” Patrick offers, taking a couple steps closer.

“I don’t know his number without my phone,” he says, sounding despondent.

“Is there anyone else you can call whose number you do know?” Surely there is someone who can come collect this guy.

“I can’t call my mom. She’ll kill me. The whole reason I was going to Chris’s is because I promised her I would stop coming home after midnight.”

Patrick blurts incredulously, “You live with your mom?” This guy is obviously older than him, and looks like the rebellious type who would have moved out on his own before he even graduated high school.

At this, Pete looks up blearily at Patrick. “And my dad,” he clarifies. He scrubs a hand down his face, wincing when it brushes over his mouth. He probes at it with his fingers and checks for blood, but apparently it has all dried up. “This is another awesome thing,” he says bitterly. “I spent the whole night talking to this guy I thought was into me, but when I made a move on him he punched me in the mouth and called me a fag.”

Patrick is horrified. “That’s...that’s awful.”

He shrugs dismissively, but it's clear how much it pains him. “That’s when I started drinking. I don’t even normally drink.” He tries to focus on Patrick's face, his head wobbly. “Do you have any coffee?”

Patrick stares at him. “Coffee?”

“It might help sober me up,” he explains.

“I don't drink coffee. Sorry.”

Pete looks truly puzzled at this revelation. “Then what do you drink in the morning?”

“Tea,” Patrick replies.

“Tea?!” Pete asks, spitting the word out like it tastes bad.

“Coffee is bad for my voice,” Patrick explains, somewhat defensively.

“You sing?” Pete asks, sounding intrigued. 

“Yes,” Patrick replies testily.

Pete appears to think deeply about this. His eyes close and his head dips momentarily before he jerks it up and commands, “Sing something!”

Patrick doesn't say, “Are you fucking kidding me?” but he thinks it. “I am not singing for you,” he says flatly. 

Pete's eyes are drooping. “C’mon! I bet you have a pretty voice to match that pretty face.”

Patrick glares at him even as he reddens with embarrassment. Drunken flattery is not going to get Pete anywhere, he decides. Pete already seems like the someone who's used to getting his way all the time. “No fucking way.”

“Okay - how ‘bout I start and you join in?” Pete proposes. He throws his arm into the air with a flourish, opens his mouth wide, and promptly clamps his hand over his mouth, looking panicked. 

Patrick, in a panic himself, can't decide whether to dash to the kitchen and grab the nearest pot, or to haul Pete to his feet and drag him to the bathroom. Pete, however, decides for him. He attempts to get up, face pained and hand still firmly over his mouth. 

Patrick reacts quickly this time, rushing to Pete’s aid, nervously muttering, “This way, dude. _Please_ don't puke yet.” He drags Pete the short distance to the bathroom and practically throws him at the toilet, checking to make sure his aim is okay before stepping out into the hall and covering his ears. He decides to further distance himself from the disgusting scene by making Pete a glass of water, figuring he’s going to need to replenish the seemingly gallons of liquid he’s currently depositing into Patrick's toilet. 

He creeps back down the hallway cautiously, glass of water in hand. Mercifully, the retching has stopped, but a low, guttural moan, reminiscent of a wounded dog, is now coming from the bathroom. Patrick slowly peers around the doorway and sees Pete practically melted onto the toilet. Inexplicably, his shirt is now off. Patrick should really not be checking out a guy who is in such a condition, but Pete’s all lean muscle and has these awesome dimples on his lower back, just above his -

As Patrick’s eyes are travelling further down, Pete coughs violently and Patrick jumps back from the doorway. When it’s clear another round of puking isn’t going to start, Patrick approaches again. “Um, Pete?” he says tentatively. “I brought you some water…” He gingerly sets the glass next to the sink, within Pete's reach. Pete’s eyes are closed, and his face is smushed into the toilet seat. Patrick grimaces at the sight. He hasn’t cleaned the toilet since he moved in. 

Pete emits another groan that kind of passes as a thank you, but doesn't move. 

“Uh, you okay, man?” Patrick asks cautiously, taking a step closer. 

Pete slowly cracks open one eyelid, then the other. He looks like he’s making several attempts at forming words before finally croaking, “Yeah. I'm better now.” He raises his head, which bobbles precariously back and forth a few times before steadying, and reaches out in the general vicinity of the water glass. Patrick is curious to see if Pete can actually manage to pick up the glass on his own, but he takes pity on him and places it in his hand. 

“Thanks, dude,” Pete mumbles into the glass before taking a sip. Patrick stands there awkwardly while Pete moans and drinks, then relieves him of the glass before he sets it down inches away from the counter. Miraculously, Pete makes it to his feet with minimal effort. He no longer seems to be swaying when he puts his hand to his forehead and groans, “Oh, god...all I wanna do now is sleep.”

Patrick sighs, resigned. “I'll get you a blanket and pillow.” He sometimes complains his life is boring, so...

Pete doesn't seem to hear him, if the way he's heading in the direction of Patrick’s bedroom is any indication. 

“Uh, I can get it for you,” Patrick calls after him. 

Pete, however, is undoing his pants and manages to partially push them down before doing a face plant in the middle of Patrick's bed. 

“What the fuck?!” Patrick exclaims. 

Pete makes no sound or movement in response. He remains facedown on the mattress with his jeans bunched around his knees, ratty sneakers hanging off the end of the bed. Mercifully, he does have on underwear.

Patrick throws his hands in the air in defeat. He moves to grab a pillow for himself, planning to leave Pete as he is and make a bed for himself on the couch, before heaving a sigh and untying Pete’s shoes, telling himself he doesn’t want his bed to get dirty, after all. (Although clearly he’s going to have to sanitize everything Pete has come in contact with tonight.) He slides Pete’s shoes off, dropping them to the floor, and then the thought occurs to him that it would be very uncomfortable to sleep with your knees bound tightly in denim. Considering that tonight’s theme has been Going Against His Own Better Judgment, Patrick starts working the hem of Pete’s jeans over his heel and ankle, using great care until it’s obvious Pete is completely out cold and his body is loose and pliant. It’s a good thing Pete isn’t resisting (although a little cooperation would be nice), because it requires a great deal of tugging and pulling to get those ridiculously tight jeans off of him. Finally, with a mighty yank, Patrick succeeds in pulling the jeans off completely, almost falling on his ass in the process. Pete moans softly and Patrick looks at him suspiciously. There’s slight head movement, but Pete looks like he’s burrowing his face further into the mattress more than anything.

“Pete!” he says loudly. Another quiet moan. “Pete, are you going to get sick again?”

Pete groans what sounds like a negative into the mattress. Patrick wonders how he can even breathe.

“Pete, you need to turn your head,” Patrick practically yells, to no avail. He would really like to avoid having to explain to the cops in the morning how a complete stranger ended up suffocated in his bed. He tries to gauge how much air Pete could possibly be getting before deciding to slide one hand under his forehead. Fixing the other firmly on his jaw, he turns Pete’s head to the side for him, and smooths his sticky hair away from his face. It really is a remarkably attractive face, even with closed eyes and a partially opened mouth. Patrick wryly thinks that he never expected he’d end up with such a good-looking guy in his bed. He sets his bedroom trashcan on the floor beside Pete, even though he realizes it’s highly unlikely that Pete will have the wherewithal to find it and use it if he gets sick again.

But what if he does get sick again, and Patrick’s asleep in the living room? He’s heard of people choking on their own vomit, sure, but there’s also the thought of the _mess_. If Patrick’s close by, he can hopefully point Pete in the right direction and avoid having to soak all of his bedding in bleach. But what is he going to do? He can’t stand guard over Pete all night, and he’s sure as hell not going to sleep on his own floor. Yeah, fuck that - that’s _his_ bed, and Pete is the invader here. Patrick is entitled to his own bed.

Fueled by his indignation, Patrick marches purposefully to side of the bed Pete’s mouth is _not_ pointed towards, flops down forcefully, and curls up into a ball on the edge of the bed, his back to Pete, yanking the blanket over himself. He lies there seething for a while, knowing full well he’s not going to be able to fall asleep while balanced precariously on the edge of the bed like he is. He eventually finds himself creeping backwards little by little, until he makes contact with Pete’s arm and freezes. Pete makes no indication he noticed, so Patrick relaxes and finally drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

When he wakes up, soft yellow daylight is starting to peek around the cracks of his curtains, and there’s a solid presence against his back that he can’t figure out. There’s an arm wrapped around his middle, too: a sinewy, ink-covered arm…

“Pete!” Patrick hisses, plucking at his arm.

The only reply he gets is a sharp chin dug into the back of his neck as Pete pulls him closer, breathing warm, damp breath into his hair.

“Pete!” Patrick says more loudly, thrashing back and forth a bit. What the hell is this lunatic doing clinging to him like some kind of parasite?

This time he gets an whiny “Mmm!” that sounds like it came from a pouty child, and Pete throws a leg over Patrick for good measure.

“Oh my god!” Patrick exclaims.

“Shh!” Pete admonishes.

“What. The. Fuck,” Patrick mutters. He’s rendered practically motionless by a Pete straightjacket, and he’s unsure of what to do next. He’s not in the mood to wrestle this person who has suddenly become freakishly strong in his sleep, which is interesting considering that when he passed out he probably could have been rolled out into the hallway without noticing. And, actually, Pete is warm and more comfortable than one would think, and his body kind of fits with Patrick’s, and being snuggled feels nice, really…

Patrick allows himself to relax, and Pete does, too, loosening the vicelike grips of his arm and leg, although they remain where they are. He’s almost half on top of Patrick, more of a Pete blanket than straightjacket now, and Patrick falls back asleep much more easily than he did before.

Patrick’s alarm goes off at noon, and at first he’s too busy with the familiar routine of cursing it and fumbling for the snooze button to remember that he hadn’t slept alone the night before. He whips his head around and finds his bed empty, although his sheets are far more of a jumbled mess than usual. He jumps out of bed and searches the floor for Pete’s clothes. They’re gone, and Patrick dashes down the hall, looking for confirmation that he had not merely had a bizarre, extremely realistic dream. The only evidence Pete had been there the night before was the water glass on the bathroom counter and the unfastened deadbolt on the front door, indicating Pete had at least chosen a more reasonable route through which to exit. Patrick returns to his room, looking for at least a note or something. “What an ungrateful little shit!” he says aloud, ignoring the sinking feeling of disappointment in his gut. 

Inexplicably, Patrick doesn't tell any of his friends about what happened. He even blows off Joe when he asks why Patrick's so tired. He feels like a pushover, and maybe a little taken advantage of. In the next couple of weeks that follow, he's tempted to ask around if anyone knows a tattooed guy named Pete, but he talks himself out of it every time. What would he do if it turns out they have a mutual friend? Ask them to ask Pete if he remembers the guy whose apartment he drunkenly broke into on accident? 

Every time he thinks of that night he feels like the world's biggest fool, so he does his best not to think of it. He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but the main reason he feels foolish is because he wishes more than anything that Pete would have shown interest in keeping in contact with him - stuck around until he woke up or left him a phone number or something. Pete had acted like he genuinely liked Patrick that night, but it must have just been because he was drunk. Every night when Patrick goes to sleep, he allows himself to think briefly about how good Pete felt cuddled up against him - how they strangely fit together somehow, despite being perfect strangers - before shoving those thoughts from his mind and taking forever to fall asleep while running through as many distractions as possible. 

Patrick is playing guitar by himself in his living room one afternoon when he hears a knock. He opens the door, expecting it to be Joe, but he's stunned to find Pete standing there, head ducked down, peering at Patrick timidly through the fringe of his bangs. He's not just stunned by his presence; he's stunned by his _appearance_ , because if he thought Pete looked good before, he's absolutely _gorgeous_ in broad daylight when he's not drunk off his ass. His hair looks clean, his lip is healed, he's able to stand in one place without swaying, and his eyes, which are an unusual shade of amber brown, are clear and soulful. 

“Patrick?” Pete says quietly, and Patrick realizes he's been standing there staring at Pete with his mouth open. 

“Yeah,” he manages. “Uh, hi, Pete.” 

They stand there looking nervously at each other for another moment, until Pete visibly squirms and starts to ramble. “Patrick, I owe you an apology. Or a thank you. Both, really. I'm - I'm sorry I broke into your apartment. And - like, by all rights you should've called the cops on my drunk ass, but you were so nice to me and you took care of me when you had no reason whatsoever to do that. You must be like a saint, dude.”

Patrick can tell he's blushing. “It's, uh, no big deal.”

Pete's eyes widen and he gets more animated as he speaks. “It is too a big deal! A lot of my asshole friends wouldn't do that for me! They'd let me pass out in my own puke on the floor and then take pictures!”

Patrick makes a face and is about to suggest Pete needs better friends when Pete drops his voice - and his head - again. “Look, I was going to tell you this story about it taking me this long to find your place again, but the truth is...I was too embarrassed to come around sooner. I don't want you to think I make a habit of doing shit like that.”

Patrick chuckles, “What, shit like getting drunk and climbing up fire escapes through random windows and throwing up and passing out in complete stranger’s beds?” As soon as he says it, he freezes, embarrassed that he brought up the fact that he and this (holy shit, so hot!) guy had shared a sleeping space. He wonders if Pete remembers cuddling him. 

Pete barks out an awkward laugh of his own. “Well, yeah, all of that, but even the drunk part. It was just a bad night all around…” He mutters this last part while looking at his feet and scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor, then suddenly looks up straight into Patrick's face. “Only it ended up being an awesome night, because I met you.”

So yeah, apparently Pete’s a charmer whether he’s drinking or not. Patrick feels a flush creeping up his neck. “It was definitely the most _interesting_ night I've had in a long time,” he says dryly.

“And, uh, I gotta tell you,” Pete continues, making his shoes his focal point once more, “I thought that maybe I remembered you through beer goggles or whatever, but now that I'm seeing you sober, I think you're actually cuter than I remember.” He peeks up at Patrick, gauging his reaction, wincing slightly like he's afraid Patrick is going to haul off and deck him or something. 

Patrick feels his jaw drop, but manages to recover enough to mutter, “You’re even better looking when you’re sober, yourself.”

The awkwardness seems to thaw in Pete’s sunny grin. Patrick reflexively returns it, opens the door wider and steps back. “Do you want to come in?”

Pete eagerly steps over the threshold. “Only if you finally sing for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I probably wouldn't have started writing again without the encouragement and inspiration from MsPeppernose <3 (Plus, she's had to hear me talk about this for months and months. There's no way it lived up to the buildup, but I hope she enjoys it anyway)
> 
> Title is from "Run Dry (X Heart X Fingers)" (Another title derived from Soul Punk lyrics, but it was too fitting)


End file.
